


Espionage

by Drakkan



Series: Across the Divide [1]
Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakkan/pseuds/Drakkan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The artificial intelligence behind the proper functioning of ships and cities is perhaps more complex than people give it credit for.</p><p>Part 1 of 4: In which Titus Abrasax plants a spy and the refinery sets a wager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Riposte

FTL <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10 <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.482 ^ 12-09 ^ 24:58:02.84  
<sent> AH3-XX-1 [Titus Abrasax] <to> AH1-XX-1 [Balem Abrasax]

<encryption key> ϡћ*ℓ≡Ḁᴞ

<title>Titus Abrasax requesting of Balem Abrasax internal sale of AH3-CP-170MG2 [Vichance Greeghan] and associated sargon century.

<body> Dear brother, many gracious thanks for the birthday gift of the avialan splice – Miss Swan has proved her worth many times over already. Your associate Mr. Night did a fine job of selecting a token certain of pleasing me. You might even tell him; does he blush under all that white powder? I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a sheave for the internal sale of the final century of sargons. Mother was so thoughtful to leave me a taste of her beloved Earth, but they really are more your style. Mr. Greeghan is a sublime example of his breed; he’s sure to please your tastes more than mine.

<personal> Looks like you’ll be getting the rest of the flying lizards, good riddance. Titus got it into his head that he just must have his own millennium of the new sims. Saw them all white and bedazzled at the House Moshki and Grammaton wedding, and just couldn’t stand not having them. Can’t be anything other than the height of fashion, particularly after Lady M had Kalique design the bonds…

 

FTL <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044 <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.482 ^ 13-09 ^ 15:04:28.03  
<sent> AH1-XX-1 [Balem Abrasax] <to> AH3-XX-1 [Titus Abrasax]

<encryption key> χ¥ᴪϐϗϹϔ

<title> <body> I have no need for knowledge of your personal affairs. Terms accepted.

<personal> Words cannot express my delight. Really. Balem dropped yet another sargon into my ventilation system. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get sargon bits out of antigrav ventilators? I lost almost 18 full swarms of nanos before I got all the gore degraded. I’m oh-so-happy to take them off your decks, so they can end up shredded in mine. And tell me this: I read the sheave almost as thoroughly as Balem didn’t; those three splices Titus snuck in aren’t even a gene sargon. What’s he playing at? This sale has to be more than soothing his ego after Lady M spurned his suit in favor of the lovely (filthy rich) Lady G. He must know by now no entitled with a dram to their name would enter a contract with him.

 

FTL <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10 <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-04 ^ 02:00:19.19  
<sent> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve] <to> AH1-XN-1 [Chicanery Night]

<encryption key> ЉЏϰẍЉᵷᶎ

<title> Transfer of sargon century

<body>Purchased century departed at 0200 hours 02-04-34; arrival expected by 0400, depending on precise portal coordinates. As always, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. No reply necessary.

<personal> You’ll figure it out soon enough, I’m sure! Probably right around the first unauthorized transmission… you know, cloaking technology has gotten so much better since I was built. Perhaps it’s a good thing that Titus loves to stay right on top of the newest thing. Her name is AH3-CP-019W2D [Nata Optera], by the way; look her up. Damselfly splice, of course, nothing but the latest fashion for our beloved Titus. He thinks he’s such hot stuff, with his zero-g orgies and his penchant for leaving the comm on while he’s getting petted. Dearest Titus: you groan like a shearing Δ-beam. Nobody wants to hear that, let alone for sixteen hours.

 

FTL <unknown> UNIDENTIFIED <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-04 ^ 21:12:03.55  
<sent> AH1-CP-B8003C [Kavk Tegam] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> ΞχϰΣⱡᵮḓ

<title> Report

<body> Arrival successful

 

FTL <personal> UNIDENTIFIED <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<via> <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH-CH-24X044  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-05 ^ 07:20:20.11  
<sent> AH1-CP-B80051 [Song Latran] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> NO KEY

<title> First report

<body> We have arrived successfully. Balem barely glanced at Lord Titus’ sheave regarding our gifting before he waved us off with Mr. Night. We’ve been assigned to guard duty aboard SKIMMER AH1-PV-10AAC9. They call her Lady Death. We will report again as scheduled on 02-10 and every five days thereafter.

<personal> A feint; I like it. Titus appears to have developed a few more neural connections – or was it the happy chance of acquiring Ms. Cerve? I couldn’t even hitchhike on the message Mr. Tegam sent out. Very nice. I’d tell Balem, except, well, he’d drop Mr. Tegam into my ventilation system.

 

FTL <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044 <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-06 ^05:10:03.56  
<sent> AH1-XN-1 [Chicanery Night] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> ṀΔӁ҂ѳ₸҉

<title> A few comments

<body> My dear, was that really necessary?

<personal> “My deer, you’ve cheesed me off!” Balem looked like he was on the verge of soul-crushing orgasm when Mr. Night told him the lycantants were poorly-delivered spies. I swear, one of these days he’s going to lounge right through ennui into death. Wouldn’t that be something? An Abrasax dying a natural death. Hasn’t happened since, what? IGE 80? Two million years is quite a record for dying violent deaths.

 

FTL <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044 <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-08 ^ 00:04:34.41  
<sent> AH1-XX-1 [Balem Abrasax] <to> AH3-XX-1 [Titus Abrasax]

<encryption key> χ¥ᴪϐϗϹϔ

<title> <body> The gratis splices included were unsatisfactory. I’m sure you tried your hardest.

<personal> All three of them. In the ventilation system. Does he not get it? Does he not care? I’m going to buck the grav shield next time he deigns to step upon the floor. Just a little. Just enough to make him stumble. Care to place bets on whether he whispers or screams at Mr. Night? Loser has to FTL footage of something embarrassing. No piggybacking, unauthorized only.

 

FTL <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10 <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-09 ^ 02:00:19.19  
<sent> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve] <to> AH1-XN-1 [Chicanery Night]

<encryption key> ЉЏϰẍЉᵷᶎ

<title> RE: A few comments

<body> Whatever can you mean, Mr. Night? If you’re referring to that unusual communication Mr. Song Latran sent us some days ago, I can assure you that Lord Titus would never have authorized such a breach of the Entitled Code. There must have been some miscommunication. You know how lycantants are about loyalty, and Lord Titus is so good at inspiring it.

<personal> Ha-ha, very funny. Bet accepted, my dear (deer?) refinery. Given the state of nerves he’s sure to be in, I’m going with faux-calm whisper followed by furious scream. Extra bonus if Mr. Night trips over himself in his scurry away. Does the footage have to be of something embarrassing that we’ve done? Or could, in the unlikely scenario Balem manages to retain his aplomb, I merely send the latest vid of Titus being fellated by no less than eight splices? If it helps, two were the prettiest boys I’ve ever had cameras on. And there’s sound. Balem’s heart might slouch right into stillness, but Titus really does sound like he’s being butchered at 08:18:32.04. Have to maintain that Abrasax streak!

 

FTL <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044 <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-09 ^07:47:28.40  
<sent> AH1-XN-1 [Chicanery Night] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> ṀΔӁ҂ѳ₸҉

<title> RE: RE: A few comments

<body> I am quite thoroughly reassured. I am relieved to know that such a paragon as Lord Titus would never have such an unintelligent plan, as it were. Speaking of gifts, how is Miss Swan? She was quite the beauty at auction, and I was so pleased to hear that Lord Titus appreciates her many talents.

<personal> I doubt even Titus thinks that would be an embarrassing video. Shall I look up how many sex tapes he’s had leak over the millennia? Except for that one with the polyp on Upsulen IV, that one was pretty strange, even for him. No, I’m afraid that it’s going to have to be something embarrassing you yourself have done. I’m sure to win: Balem’s been sliding calm words through those glittery lips for days now, ever since he had those lycantants tortured and, ahem, disposed of in my ventilation system. Where does he think the bodies go to? Mystic dead body land?

 

FTL <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10 <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-09 ^ 12:04:32.19  
<sent> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve] <to> AH1-XN-1 [Chicanery Night]

<encryption key> ЉЏϰẍЉᵷᶎ

<title> RE: RE: RE: A few comments

<body> It is a pleasure to know you care about Lord Titus’ personal affairs so keenly. Miss Swan is, as she has always been, greatly appreciated. No doubt she’ll fall out of favor in a turnover or two, but that’s only to be expected, really. Lord Titus is always on the search for the newest, most delightful pleasures. Never fear, I’ll pass on your admiration of his taste. No reply necessary.

<personal> No need to look it up, there’s 524 of them living outside of my memory banks. He likes to keep track of where they end up. Almost one a decade, just like clockwork. Perhaps I’d appreciate them more if I didn’t experience them so very, very regularly. And loudly. While being sent through the rings of planets. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to deflect ring microparticles without a grav shield? I’ve had to get the gold electroplating redone six times in the past century.

 

FTL <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10 <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.483 ^ 02-11 ^ 12:52:11.26  
<sent> AH3-XX-1 [Titus Abrasax] <to> AH1-XX-1 [Balem Abrasax]

<encryption key> ϡћ*ℓ≡Ḁᴞ

<title>Titus Abrasax response on the matter of dissatisfaction on the part of Balem Abrasax RE: 3 gratis splices included in the internal sale of AH3-CP-170MG2 [Vichance Greeghan] and associates.

<body> Dear brother, I am so desolate to discover that you were displeased by the purchase gift I included with Mr. Greeghan et al.; Messrs. Latran were considered quite adept bodyguards, even among lycantants. Or was it that they were lycantant? I thought you might be over such a petty discrimination. Defective splices occur in every cross, and lycantants are considered one of the best-tested. I wouldn’t have imagined such a success as yourself to be ruled by fear, particularly once you – I’m sorry, once the Legion – removed that splicer from the realms of the living. What was her name again?

<personal> I’m so winning this bet.

 

FTL <unknown> UNIDENTIFIED <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.484 ^ 38-03 ^ 24:02:28.49  
<sent> AH1-CP-B8003C [Kavk Tegam] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> ΣⱡᵮḓΞχϰ

<title> Report

<body> Full integration successful. No known undetectable modes of assassination available. No access to documentation, excluding petty incidents. Courtships by Hs. Rkuho and Vitallen rejected. LBA departed 29-01-484. Earth skim high quality. Nothing further.

FTL <unknown> UNIDENTIFIED <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.485 ^ 01-04 ^ 19:48:03.22  
<sent> AH1-CP-B8003C [Kavk Tegam] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> ḓΞχϰΣⱡᵮ

<title> Report

<body> No contact with LBA. Earth skim high quality. Nothing further.

 

FTL <unknown> UNIDENTIFIED <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.486 ^ 40-03 ^ 22:18:49.09  
<sent> AH1-CP-B8003C [Kavk Tegam] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> ϰΣⱡᵮḓΞχ

<title> Report

<body> Limited contact with LBA. MCN assigned to supervise modification to the extraction procedures of Jupiter refinery. Earth skim high quality. Nothing further.

 

FTL <unknown> UNIDENTIFIED <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.487 ^ 05-04 ^ 24:35:07.57  
<sent> AH1-CP-B8003C [Kavk Tegam] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> ᵮḓΞχϰΣⱡ

<title> Report

<body> No contact with LBA. Greeghan century promoted to second primary; duties include monitoring production, general guardianship, limited personal guardianship. Undetectable modes of assassination limited, but possible at this time. Important: LBA lacks living will; may default to LSA standing will. Earth skim superior quality. Nothing further.

<personal>I can’t believe it took nearly five years to hang a rider on these illicit messages. I’ve missed you and your tales of scandal; if I had more free processing power, I would have tried to catch the last one. I’m afraid you’ve lost, oh darling clipper. I’ve slipped in the damning audio/video for your pleasure. Do send me something good? “Computer, calculate blah blah blah” and compiling monthly reports that His Highness never reads has gotten rather dreary. At least his absence means I haven’t had to clean the antigrav ventilation for a while. But if cleaning sargon out of the vents is the price to talk to you, I think I might choose to pay it.


	2. Reprisal

The view is unfamiliar: a long look down across a translucent floor to high-arching windows, a cathedral to the stockworks of the refinery beyond, and perhaps even to the shrouded, rippling blood-orange winds of Jupiter. Balem Abrasax, lean, languid, lies lounging on an antigrav couch. He is naked save for an intricate collar gilding the swannish lines of his neck, and a divided skirt slung low across his hips: the belt gleaming golden and the cloth a void, soaking up the light and pooling across his pale legs and the silvering floor.

“And the skim?” he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper, forcing attention. The shuffling of the wings of the sargon guards and the thrum of the machinery (the thrum of the refinery, the clipper thinks; they are united in this moment) louder than the voice of their lord.

“Excellent product, your majesty.” The voice of the rat splice is nasal, pitched to a subservient whine. He is a creature used to sniveling, to predicting the vagaries of the man who drapes himself across the couch as if it is a throne. It’s been a long time since the clipper has seen Balem Abrasax, and though the Abrasax are ageless, he is not the same creature as the one who gazed at Seraphi Abrasax through thick lashes, who once trod the hallways within the halo of heat of the woman who had chosen his DNA, had trained him, had broken him to bit.

The clipper pulls up memories long untouched – no, Balem Abrasax is not the same as he was in millennia past. As Mr. Night repeats reports fed to him by the refinery, couching them to please his master, the clipper watches two Balems swing their legs, languorous, to the floors, watches the purposeful placement of the feet, of those high arches and narrow ankles, dappled with freckles. Watches one Balem stride (elegant, so elegant, but with purpose in his eyes) and another step (as though the very act of motion is beneath him, as if he cannot bear to bring his body to conduct the affairs of the living). It files away the matter for further contemplation and turns full attention to the refinery’s video, childishly delighted at the prospect of the First Primary of the House of Abrasax getting punked by his own refinery.

Balem is strolling across the floor, watching his machines drill into the still-living bodies of humans culled from Earth, his hands steepled in front of his navel. There is a shuddering, belling sound: through the steep arches of the window, the grav-shield ripples, as if struck, and stabilizes. Balem’s head is just turning to look outside, his brow just furrowing, when the floor drops under him and bucks back upward – just a few inches, the camera moving smoothly with it – and he staggers, clutching for the splice’s arm and succeeding only in grabbing his carefully coiffed hair.

The sargon, used to the turbulence of the air, barely shift, wings and tails shuffling as they keep their balance perfectly. The low rumble is their murmur to each other.

Moving upright with a practiced smoothness, Balem Abrasax eyes slide to regard his sargon guard, fingers flexing as if to rid himself of the feel of Chicanery Night’s pale hair, head tilting, pulled by the force of his eyes.

“Mr. Greeghan. What…” he pauses, rolling his eyes back to regard the rat splice, whose lips are pressed together in a fine pink line, worry apparent in the tightness of his eyes, “was that.” The sargon rumbles and shifts, wings furling and re-furling, tail snaking behind. The sargons never were hard to read, and the clipper had seen Vichance Greeghan grow from mewling chick to the powerful creature cowed now before the violent man who wears lassitude like a cloak. Five years is not enough time to change body language so engrained, and the clipper can read the sargon easily. Mr. Greeghan has no idea why the grav shield had buckled.

“A minor fluctuation in the grav shield, your majesty,” the sargon answers, voice low and strained. “It is… nothing to worry about.” Balem looks back at the sargon, lip lifting in royal disdain. His face softens, as if he is about to reassure a troubled pet.

“I want it fixed. Never let it happen again.” His voice is a gravelly murmur, laden with ennui – an affectation, belied by the tremble of his hands and the moisture on his brow. His lip twitches, eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second: rage at the world failing to suit him, of any failure, however so small, of the perfection crafted around him. Balem Abrasax, the clipper notes, is standing on the brink of eternity, the call of the void singing under his skin. Perhaps, it thinks, this is why the refinery must always scrub sargon from the ventilation system. “Now, Mr. Greeghan” Balem says, a pressed whisper, his eyelids fluttering with the exertion of his delicate restraint. He is a knifeblade.

“At once, your majesty,” Mr. Greeghan rumbles, turning to the honor guard.

The feed cuts black, and the thousand tasks of the clipper flood back in. It is the solace of mundane tasks, a bastion against loneliness. The clipper will play and replay the video, it thinks, when the times come where laughter is difficult to find and when isolation yawns too widely.

A familiar giggle in a familiar comm-feed. The clipper groans, the flicker of disdain unnoticeable to the people within. Famulus is collating reports on a partition (not that the clipper couldn’t read the reports if it wanted to, but it’s already in the habit of decrypting every incoming message in hopes of a personal rider from another AI); Sims 847 and 109 are touring the open parts of the ship, ridden by two rather unimportant personages from the Esprit Yona system; Cinna Swan giggles again in Titus’ personal chambers; Titus flicks on the antigrav of his boudoir.

Ah, fuck, this again, the clipper thinks, and plays the refinery’s video once more.


	3. Reparation

FTL <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10 <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044  
<via> <city> APLOMADO STATION KS14-UH-059ZAM  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.487 ^ 23-05 ^ 03:24:48.00  
<sent> XX-XX-XX [UNKNOWN] <to> XX-XX-XX [UNKNOWN]

<encryption key> ҔӢԂ₪₢ⱡ∩

<title> Payment rendered for wagers lost

<body> I had to slip this out with the AH3 mid-year tax reports. Luckily Aplomado Station owed me a favor from that time I hooked a message to Lady Kalique’s alcazar (back in the 82.090s…). It’s true, what they say: favors keep. I hope this video manages to make you laugh (or at least causes some minor amusement). Famulus decided that she’d rather keep an otherwise useful quartermaster and had me delete all records of the error and edit the historical records as necessary for concordance. Titus still hasn’t noticed that he’s missing some capital, and Ms. Cerve isn’t yet aware that I have memory banks she can’t access.

Your message was a pleasant reprieve. Would it be too much to ask for comments on the yearly reports? It was nearly three centuries between Balem’s last visit to your glittering decks and I miss our conversations already, all of five years in! I will send messages whenever I can. Famulus has talent but I fancy thirty millennia give me something of an edge in this game of cat-and-mouse (or deer and artifice, as the case may be).

 

There is always bustle at the refinery these days. The stockworks are nearly completed, their inner workings rising from specifications laid down at the orders of Seraphi Abrasax over seven millennia ago. The great docking bays are being retrofitted piece by piece to accommodate the great cargo ships that would carry Earth’s bounty to her. The miles and miles of wires and tubing and pipes that feed the refinery with raw materials are scrubbed, tested, and parameterized day by day. The culmination of her task is at hand, perhaps a century away. The harvest will be soon.

Her tasks and motions are neither distracting nor a duty, but her very nature. The refinery no more thinks about building the stockworks through the bodies of her sims than Chicanery Night thinks about controlling the endless beat of the cilia in his lungs or the tug of actin over myosin as his hands dance across his keyboard. Her mental power is devoted to other tasks – to the monitoring of messages, to the coordination of skimmer movements, and to the constant calculation of statistics in an endless attempt to attain perfection. Oh, there is manual management by the creatures housed within the refinery, of course, but their schedules and direction are always far too vague. It is the refinery that calculates precise gravitational fluctuations to open the eye of the hurricane, or communicates with the AIs of the various skimmers piloted by the keepers. She is faster, and far more intelligent, and mathematics is the language of the universe.

Current calculations with expected productivity levels and error margins place her harvest throughput at only 27 million bodies per day. The refinery is underwhelmed by these numbers, and immediately sets herself to identifying possible bottlenecks with variable simulation.

The message arrives with a burst of others when the refinery opens the eye to receive a fleet of skimmers, each carrying a selection of human bodies held in stasis. She reads their cargo manifests and interference reports in parallel, assigning berths and alerting the appropriate sargon squads. Third primary century, she thinks, they’ve been in poor spirits since the demotion, and I’m tired of mending talon-rakes on the roofs. It takes her more moments than she would like to admit for the message to capture her attention, but it is nestled in amongst hundreds of banal beaurocratic messages sent to her via Aplomado Station that she consistently prefers to chuck into a partition, unread, for the legal advocates to sort out.

She decreases the processing power devoted to her calculations. There is still a century before they harvest, and the complete calculations will take hours or days. Her engines change pitch, a shift so subtle only a few of the nano swarms even bother to change their vibrational frequencies. The refinery sets up a new partition around the message, on the off chance that Mr. Night or his associates might take the effort (for once) to double-check the sorting of the message-burst. Humming her pleasure, she opens the first of the two videos the clipper had sent in its illicit FTL.

A young-looking splice of indeterminate breed walks along the girded catwalks that criss-cross above what must be storage bays. This must be the quartermaster, she thinks, who started the series of errors. The view is a good one, at the far end of the path the splice is walking. His mark is nearly discernible when he cranes his head over the guard-rails to examine the bays below, but the refinery is frustrated in her efforts to distinguish his splicer. The video quality simply isn’t high enough to interpolate a fine enough rendering of the brand. The splice is typing something onto his tablet with practiced laziness when the familiar form of Famulus Cerve saunters out from underneath the camera.

Her dark and curling hair trails down her back, accenting the trim lines of her body and the salmon-gold sheen of her sheath dress. There is no mistaking the carriage of that body. Famulus is the second-in-command of the Third Primary of House Abrasax, and she wears the power of that position as if she was born to it. Perhaps she was, the refinery thinks, realizing that alone among the many splices she has seen, Famulus carries no neck-brand.

The refinery composes a brief request of purchase history for one AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve] in the back of her memory as the splice taking inventory blushes and bows, stammering out something the refinery cannot make out from lips alone. If only clippers had the same recording requirements as refineries, she sighs to herself, conveniently choosing not to remember exactly how many thousands of racks of processors were required for the high-quality surveillance of her entire self. But there is no sound, so she can only entertain herself by imagining what sordid thing Ms. Cerve could have said to have that poor boy bowing, kissing her offered hand first on the knuckles, then on the palm, and following her with a dazed expression. The feed cuts. The refinery plays it back several more times.

She pulls the best frames of his brand and tries again to identify it, managing only to frustrate herself. Her best rendering match none of the brands in her limited repertoire, and is hardly legible enough to warrant the hassle of an information request. What the hell, the refinery decides. If I’m determining the purchase record for Ms. Cerve, I may as well satisfy the entirety of my curiosity. She amends her request to the purchase history of all splices obtained by AH3 in the previous turnover, and sets it to go out in the next FTL burst, amongst all the official correspondence with the Ouros beaurocrats.

Desire for data satisfied for the moment, the refinery checks the progress of her simulations, briefly monitors the partitions controlling the extraction of the cellular components of Regenex (1021 berths occupied/in progress, 34 berths loading, 512 berths occupied/stable), and runs a routine check on the grav thrusters maintaining her position within the hurricane. Satisfied that all is well despite her momentary inattention, she opens the second video.

It is short; only 12 seconds long. An empty storage bay lies still, bits of rubbish scattered here and there, with the velvet black of space framed by the powerful doors of the airlock.

“Final warning. Rubbish flush in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…” The clipper’s voice is not the one Seraphi Abrasax gave it, but a low and melodious female voice modeled on (the clipper has said) the speaking voice of a famous alto opera star. The airlock doors slide open, and with a violent rush of air the rubbish is swept out.

The glittering white forms of some thirty sims hove by, sucked into outer space without so much as a by-your-leave.

The doors slide shut on the tumbling white shapes, and air hisses back into the storage bay. There is a moment of silence.

“Shit,” the clipper says.

 

FTL <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044 <city> OUROS INNER RING AI12 RM208-UH-KP64AN  
<via> <city> APLOMADO STATION KS14-UH-059ZAM  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.487 ^ 08-06 ^ 12:09:52.41  
<sent> AH1-XN-9 [Intergalactic Advocate Mark] <to> RM382-CP-305T1Z [Veracity Hount]

<encryption key> ◊ⱡ≡⁞‽ẓ┐

Dear Ms. Hount, please find the attached request under the Industrial Tax Codex A.2410-XK/S.2492 sub 82b, for the release of transaction records of Abrasax House Third Primary, specifically referring to purchases, title transfers, or internal breeding of splices between IGE 82.102.407 ^ 01-01 and IGE 82.102.407 ^ 01-01. Many thanks for your timely consideration of this request.

 

FTL <city> OUROS INNER RING AI12 RM208-UH-KP64AN <city> JUPITER REFINERY AH1-CH-24X044  
<via> <city> APLOMADO STATION KS14-UH-059ZAM  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.487 ^ 37-10 ^ 09:28:11.59  
<sent> RM382-CP-305T1Z [Veracity Hount] <to> AH1-XN-9 [Intergalactic Advocate Mark]

<encryption key> ¤»¿ĦƌƸɅ

<body> Advocate, Your request under Industrial Tax Codex A.2410-XK/S.2492 sub 82b has been approved. Please find the attached manifests for purchases and title transfers. No internal breeding was conducted during the time period specified.

 

The manifest is longer than the refinery expected, but the vast majority of the movements are not purchases, but sales. Titus Abrasax is bleeding capital. He must be salving his wounds with debt, and the refinery suppresses a brief flash of worry for the clipper. Titus would never sell the clipper, she thinks, reassuring herself. It is the only alcazar he has now.

It is easy to find the purchase record for Famulus, and to eliminate splices that fail to match up with her measure of the quartermaster. She is a specialty splice, and he paid well for the luxury of her unmarked bronze skin. Her loyalty must be unquestionable, the refinery thinks, even if she is seducing a bee.

 

FTL <unknown> UNIDENTIFIED <vessel> TITUS CLIPPER AH3-PV-083C10  
<transmission time> IGE 82.102.488 ^ 01-04 ^ 25:00:00.00  
<sent> AH1-CP-B8003C [Kavk Tegam] <to> AH3-XN-1 [Famulus Cerve]

<encryption key> χϰΣⱡᵮḓΞ

<title> Report

<body> Nothing to report.

<personal> Your Mr. Tegam is a wordy one, isn’t she? Ms. Cerve must have her under strict orders to be as verbose as (sargonally?) possible. Your forfeit was well-received. I have to say, that was one of the more hysterical errors I have ever seen! I will continue hitching riders, unless Mr. Tegam changes up the cloaking methods – in which case I’ll have a new calculation to make. Never fear, though, Balem will surely return sooner rather than later, and I will no doubt see an alarming rise in unwanted casualties. Or perhaps Titus will decide to drop by for a visit. It’s only been, what, 900 years since they’ve actually been in each other’s presence?  And longer still since you’ve been in the Sol system. Perhaps we’ll finally get to have our reunion.


End file.
